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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28382241">Brooklyn Bridge Is Burning Down</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForTheLoveOf1776/pseuds/ForTheLoveOf1776'>ForTheLoveOf1776</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ace's Oneshot Collection [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Era, Character Death, Child Death, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fire, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It Gets Worse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, Protective Racetrack Higgins, Sad Ending, Sad Spot Conlon, Spot Conlon is Bad at Feelings, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins-centric, Suicidal Thoughts, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Trauma, You Have Been Warned</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 01:00:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,813</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28382241</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForTheLoveOf1776/pseuds/ForTheLoveOf1776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>but not the Bridge.</p><p>the Lodging House.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Ace's Oneshot Collection [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057496</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Brooklyn Bridge Is Burning Down</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The Brooklyn Lodging House on 61 Poplar Street burns down and Spot is the only survivor.</p><p>introducing many Feels - TW for suicide, death, and graphic depictions of injury (I think).</p><p>(an alternate/possible scenario in my I've Got Brooklyn AU)</p><p>also coming soon (to a dank river valley near you) is gonna be this story, but if the Duane Street Lodging House had burned down and Race is the one traumatized :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Normally, Spot didn't mind fires. It was bound to bring a good headline, which meant Spot had a lot less on his mind. But when a fire was burning on 61 Poplar Street, otherwise known as Brooklyn's main Lodging House for Newsboys, he had a different opinion on them.</p><p>The night it happened he was on a late night stroll with Racer—<em> his </em>Racer. The boy who he’d kissed, the boy who he’d been secretly together with since Christmas, the boy who he loved.</p><p>And, of course, the boy who loved him.</p><hr/><p>It was Racetrack who’d spotted it first, seeing the smoke curling up and away from the rooftops. He’d thought it was just a heavily-lit fireplace for a second, before realizing it was the middle of July, and caught a glimpse of flickering orange.</p><p>“Spot, uh, do ya see tha’?” he asked, cutting into his boyfriend’s mindless ramble and pointing in the direction of the flames.</p><p>Spot, being his short self, could not. “Nah, Racer, I ain’t seein’ nothin’. Wha—”</p><p>He was cut off by sirens howling. “Fire?”</p><p>“Yep. But, uh, I thinks it’s near th’ Lodging House. I cant’s be sure, though!” he said quickly at Spot’s immediate panic. “It jus—”</p><p>“C’mon,” Spot grabbed Race’s hand and ran with him through Brooklyn. It was the first time in memory that Racetrack had ever had anyone match his speed.</p><p>They reached Poplar Street panting and out of breath. Spot cast a quick eye down the street. His heart dropped straight out of his chest.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Spot Conlon hadn’t cried in a long time. Not in front of people, anyways. But he couldn't stop the tears running down his face in great streams, blurring his vision. <em> It’s burning. Why is it burning? </em>In a daze, he didn’t quite notice himself approaching the carnage, pushing through the crowd to get to the front, but once he did there was only one thing he could discern. </p><p>
  <em> The screams.  </em>
</p><p>“They’s still alive,” Spot whispered, his ears ringing and his face attacked by the stinging heat. It dried up his tears, his vision restored, and not for the better.</p><p>Because there, at his feet, was a body. Burnt within an inch of recognition, but a wave of agony washed over Spot as he realized who this dead boy was. <em> Hot Shot. </em> His closest confidant, his best friend, his second… <em> dead. </em> And just behind him, failed to escape, Myron, Bart, and a bunch of younger kids. He just couldn’t tear his eyes away from the horror before him. <em> And there were still screams. </em></p><p>An extra movement caught his gaze. Amongst the flickering heat, something was moving. No, not something. Some<em> one. </em> </p><p>“Help!” it cried out, its voice fragmented and wrecked. “Help me…” the boy fell to the ground, burning up. Blackened and charred skin, fire crawling over his body as he dragged himself forward, a low, guttural cry ripping from his throat. Spot started, a  jolt of anguish ripping through him like lightning. <em> It was Graves. </em> A wooden beam fell from above, crushing Graves’ lower body and sending sparks flying. He let out another animal-like scream, reaching out towards Spot and Race. “HELP!” But before anyone could do anything, the entire building collapsed on itself. If any of his newsies had been alive before, they weren’t now.</p><p>Spot fell to his knees, unable to handle his distress. He vaguely registered Race’s hand on his shoulder, grounding him, but it wasn’t enough to distract Spot from the pain that completely enveloped him now. In utter defiance of the searing temperatures, tears once again made tracks down his face, and Spot let them fall.</p><p>The fire engine arrived, but there wasn’t much to be done other than extinguishing the inferno. They’d tried to get Spot to move, but he wasn’t responding even to Racetrack. He just stared into the blaze, completely and utterly destroyed. So Race knelt down beside him, and together they watched his world burn.</p><p>Finally, when the last ember had been put out, and the Lodging House was reduced to no more than ashes, Spot spoke, his voice small. “I should’ve been there.”</p><p>Racetrack’s face creased up in concern. “Spot… you’s alive. Ain’t that—ain’t that okay?”</p><p>“No,” he whispered, shaking his head, “no, I shoulda gon’ wit’ ‘em.”</p><p>“Gone?”</p><p>“Died!” his voice broke at the same time he did, falling backwards into Race’s arms. “I shoulda died wit’ ‘em, but I wasn’t <em> there </em> , Racer, an’ now they’s all gon’ and <em> I should be too! </em> I wasn’t their leader for nothin’. I—” he choked up, unable to finish, and twisted ‘round into Race’s chest, sobbing.</p><p>Race’s heart almost burst for him; his poor Spot, who’s entire life and family had burned to the ground in front of him. There was nothing he could do to console him. Words didn’t extend to this kind of nightmare. Comfort couldn’t exist in this here moment. All he could do was hold on tight, rock him back and forth as Spot cried into his shoulder, and shield him from the ruins of what had once been his home.</p><hr/><p>Needless to say, they missed the Manhattan Lodging House’s curfew. But Race, nearly completely supporting Spot at this point, pounded on the door relentlessly until someone got up.</p><p>“Racetrack, wha’ the hell. D’ya know wha’ time it is?” Jack, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, opened the door for him. “Why didn’t ‘cha jus’ come through the window? Ya woke all the fellas up, too. We’s got papes to sell an' <em> whoa </em> okay what happened to Spot?” he asked, finally taking in the newsies Race was holding up. He looked them over, taking in the soot on their clothes and the distraught faces.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Racetrack exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Brooklyn caught on fire. They’s all dead, ‘cept for Spot.”</p><p>Jack took a step back, shocked. He ran his hand through his hair, his brain short-circuiting. “No way. Oh no, Spot, I—<em>shit. </em>” He looked back at them, lost for words. “I’ll, uh—I’ll go tell Kloppman. You jus’... go upstairs.”</p><hr/><p>There was a private room free.</p><p>Race made sure to take it, throwing apologies and brief explanations to the those who'd been woken up on his way. When they made it in, Spot collapsed again, pulling Racer down with him, his entire body racked with silent sobs.</p><p>Race and Spot weren’t strangers to sharing bunks, but this time was a little different. Okay, no, this time was a <em> lot </em> different. Every time Spot closed his eyes to try sleep, he saw the bodies, heard the screams, smelt the smoke.</p><p>No matter how much he burrowed into Racetrack, no matter how tight he hugged him, he couldn’t make it <em> go away. </em></p><p>The pain was still there, but numb: that deadened, desensitized feeling coursing through him in constant streams; ever there, ever throbbing; chilling him right through his bones like he was drugged.</p><p>Racer whispered sweet nothings in his ear (because that’s all it amounted to at this moment: nothing), holding Spot close, trying to shake the feeling that he’d just lost him forever. </p><p>Eventually, they both drifted off. No one dared wake them the next morning.</p><hr/><p>Racetrack woke up to someone calling his name. He blinked at the sudden light, head pointed in the direction of the voice.</p><p>“Spo’?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’s jus’ out ‘ere, Racer.”</p><p>Race clambered out of bed and made his way to the fire escape. He was poised to just lean on the door until he noticed just where Spot was sitting.</p><p>On the edge. On the other side of the safety rail. Looking down into the streets.</p><p>It was a long way down.</p><p>Race was frozen with panic, before he finally came to his senses. “Spot? What the <em> hell </em> are ya doin’?” he rushed forward to grab his waist, and pulled his boyfriend back over the edge. Race’s eyes began to sting, and he all but collapsed onto the ground next to him. “Wha—”</p><p>“I wasn’t gonna jump,” Spot whispered. “I promise.”</p><p>Racetrack shook his head repeatedly and buried it into Spot’s shoulder, his heart going a hundred miles a minute. “I don’ care. <em> Never </em> scare me like tha’ again, Spot, ya hear me?”</p><p>Spot nodded, reaching backwards to stroke Race’s hair. “I’s sorry Racer, I dunno wha’ I was doin’. It’s all jus’ kinda, uh, numb. I guess. Not really sure o’ anythin’ right now.”</p><p>Racetrack hugged him tighter. “I know, Spot. I know.”</p><p>They stayed there for the rest of the day, until the Manhattan newsies got back.</p><hr/><p>The next couple of weeks blurred together for Spot, in their similar monotony and constant overcast of pain. A few moments stood out, though.</p><p>Him, Race and most of the Manhattan newsies traveled over to Brooklyn and held a public ceremony commemorating the lives lost to the fire.</p><p>He had 19 nightmares.</p><p>(‘Twisted memories’ would be more accurate.)</p><p>Racetrack and Jack had to stop him jumping off the balcony for real. </p><p>The next day, Race couldn’t meet his eyes, instead staying with Albert the whole time, while Jack kept an eye on Spot. They made up later though, Race once again reminding him that he had support, he just had to ask.</p><p>Spot still didn’t think he was deserving though. He’d let his boys die alone.</p><p>There was an excavation of the former Lodging House site. Spot watched the whole thing, and managed to salvage a couple of misshapen metal lumps from the wreckage. He had no idea what they used to be, and that hit hard. </p><p>(The only thing left from his home, and it wasn’t even recognizable? Yeah, great fun.)</p><p>Spot only managed to keep down about three meals in the first five days.</p><p>A couple of newspapers asked him for exclusive interviews, wanting to know how he’d made it out, what he’d seen, and everything in between. Racer chased them away.</p><p>He lost count of how many tears he cried.</p><p>There were, however, more tears than the amount of his own blood that he spilled. </p><p>What? The pain, or rather the lack thereof, was unbearable. Cutting up his body, though? He felt that.</p><p>(When Racetrack found out, he didn’t cry. Instead, he silently pulled back his own sleeves and showed Spot scars he’d noticed before, but never really <em> looked </em> at. After that, Spot didn’t do it again.)</p><p>There were many, many looks cast in his direction from the other Manhattan boys. Eventually, they got over the fact that <em> Spot freaking Conlon </em> was in <em> their </em> Lodging House—his had <em> burned down </em>—and realized this newsie was not, in fact, okay. It was Crutchie who first crossed the bridge and sat down across from him at dinner, pushing small amounts of food across the table for Spot to take.</p><p>(This was the first time Spot managed to eat without throwing it all back up. After that, he started eating a bit more, and wasn’t sick again.)</p><p>Then it was Albert, and Elmer, too, offering to sell for Spot that day. (Race had made him accept it.) Jack, also, paid for Spot to stay in Manhattan the first week, insisting “‘S fine, Spot. I makes more than ‘nough to go ‘round,” when he tried arguing. </p><p>Afterwards, though, it was Racer who paid, and Racer who sold for him, and sat with him at mealtimes. </p><p>(It was always Racetrack. It would always be Racetrack.)</p><p>(But, honestly, Spot didn’t think he was worth the effort. He’d much rather be carrying the banner, or out selling papers himself—Race wouldn’t let him, on the account that the papes were still running stories on the Brooklyn fire—and he just couldn’t understand why the ‘Hattan newsies were bothering to help him when he wasn’t able to help his own newsies.)</p><p>(Because if there was one thing Spot Conlon was, it was selfless, and dangerously so.)</p><p>But the endless routine he’d just been settling was halted abruptly, when one day Racetrack came storming into the Lodging House in the early morning.</p><p>“Racer? Why ain’t ya at distribution?”</p><p>“They upped the price o’ papes! 10 more cents per 100, Spot. We’s goin’ on strike, an’ I wan’cha there.”</p><p>Spot immediately jumped up, shock, disbelief, then anger settling onto his face. “Like hell we are,” he growled, already stalking out the door. Race nearly smiled at the act. It was the most emotion he’d seen from him in nearly a month.</p><hr/><p>Racetrack led him to Jacobi’s Deli, where the Lower Manhattan newsboys were camping out in a back room.</p><p>“Spot! I’s glad ya came,” Jack waved him over, where he and Davey (whom Race had told him of; but he’d never met) were circled by most of the Lo’er ‘Hattan newsies. There was a discussion <strike>read: argument</strike> evolving over their plan of action for the strike. Spot sat down near them, listening in. </p><p>It appeared that Jack, along with refusing to sell papers, wanted to stop the wagons from distributing to the rest of the city. He also wanted—at Davey’s suggestion—to spread the word across all the boroughs of New York, letting them all know Lower Manhattan was planning a strike, and that they’d want them to follow suit.</p><p>(The arguing was over which ‘Hattan newsies was going where.)</p><p>Jack raised his voice over the clamour. “A’right, a’right! You heard Davey. Let’s split up. Let’s spread the word.”</p><p>“I’ll take Harlem!” Mush called out.</p><p>“I got the Bronx!” JoJo said.</p><p>“An’ I got the Bowery,” Buttons added.</p><p>“Hey, uh, Specs! You take Midtown. Tommy Boy, take the East Side,” Jack finished off handing out boroughs.</p><p>“Oh! And Race, can you go ta Queens?” he asked.</p><p>Race glanced over to Spot, who shrugged in reply. He was having second thoughts about this whole thing. “Uh, okay?” Race confirmed.</p><p>Jack opened his mouth, presumably to give more instructions. All the newsies had their eyes trained on Jack, fully attentive, like he was the President of America rather than their Union. The little composure Spot had shattered. His boys used to look at him like that. He choked back a sob, before straightening up in his seat.</p><p>“How can you’s be sure this’ll work?” he called out. Spot watched in morbid fascination at the range of expressions directed at him. Some incredulous, some confused, some shocked, and some just downright pissed off. <strike>And none of them were Brooklyn faces.</strike> </p><p>Jack frowned at the question. “Are you’s sayin’ ya ain’t with us?”</p><p>Spot sighed, and stood up. “I’m <em> sayin’ </em> tha’ Brooklyn went on strike before. It worked, sure, but it was a smaller affair an’ more ‘tween the two districts as it were. What you’s proposin’ is a massive whole-city strike against <em> all </em> the papes, not jus’ one. It’s gonna be big. Are ya sure ya ain’t gon’ fold under the pressure?”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>Then Jack jumped on top of the table, running his eyes over the assembled newsboys. “Are we?” he yelled.</p><p>The Lower Manhattan newsies shared glances, then, in a cry of unison: “No!”</p><p>Jack laughed, elated at the display of defiance. “Well, ya ‘eard ‘em, Spot. Now, we’s on strike, an’ the rest of New York can do the same!” he stopped, and looked Spot dead in the eye. “Are <em> you </em> with us?”</p><p>Spot stared right back. He wasn’t sure. See, these newsies were ‘Hattan newsies. Definitely not as tough as Brooklyn. “I dunno, Jack. Honestly, I’s not sure you’s can handle it.”</p><p>Jack’s face shifted into a glare. “Well, what if I says we can? Huh? Can we handle ‘em?”</p><p>“Yeah!” The resolute yell was even louder than before.</p><p>“Well, go get ‘em!” Jack cried, punching the air.</p><p>So it was to a soundtrack of whoops and cheers that the Manhattan newsies rushed out the doors, nearly knocking over a girl trying to get in. Only Jack, Davey, Crutchie, and Race were left with Spot. Jack made to speak with him, but caught sight of the intruder.</p><p>“Where are they all going?” the girl asked, smoothing down her skirt.</p><p>“What are you doin’ ‘ere?” Jack cocked his head, confused.</p><p>“Asking a question. Have you got an answer?” she shot back, taking out a notebook and a pen. While Jack, Davey, and Crutchie walked over to her, Race turned to Spot.</p><p>“She’s a reporter, ‘parently. Anyways, ya wanna go ta Queens wit' me?”</p><p>Spot paused, surprised Racetrack didn’t chew him out for his prior comments. “Uh, I would, but…” he trailed off, and Race’s eyes widened.</p><p>“Oh. Yeah. Well, I’s got ta go if I’s getting there before ‘morrow, so I’ll see ya later?”</p><p>Spot nodded, avoided his eyes. Race pressed a cautious kiss to Spot’s forehead, then left. The Brooklyn newsie stayed a moment longer, before heading back to the Lodging House.</p><p>He wasn’t gonna lie; he’d felt better for the first time in weeks at the thought of the strike. Finally, action! Spot was all ready to jump in, but there was one thing that got in his way. Brooklyn. Just the memory of it, anyway. Or, more accurately, the memory of what it <em> was. </em></p><p>Brooklyn, to Spot, was no longer home. His family was dead, his Lodging House burned down with them. The only newsboys left roaming Brooklyn, according to Race, were the ones that slept on the streets or at the Christian newsboys house, or the older ones selling at stands. </p><p>Out of respect for the dead newsies and Spot, the other boroughs had agreed that Brooklyn was neutral turf, and were waiting a month before selling there. So, yeah, circulation was down in Brooklyn, but Spot didn’t care. At this point, the only thing he actually gave a shit about was Racer.</p><p>Spot kicked at a stone on the sidewalk, sending it spiraling into the street where it promptly tripped someone up. He didn’t care. Walking further along, he passed a newspaper stand with the headlines being hawked (“New Newsie Price: 60 Cents Per Hundred!”). He didn’t care. A man stopped him on the next street over, asking for a paper (“Ain’t you a newsboy?”). He didn’t care. Another person walked straight into him, knocking him over. He didn’t care.</p><p>He just picked himself up and kept walking, just as he’d done his entire life. A life of being out of control, yelled at, told what to do, and shoved out of the way. A life of working and hawking headlines; of walking non-stop all day because if you don’t work you don’t eat, and if you don’t eat then you got no money, and if you got no money then you gotta carry the banner instead of eating and sleeping inside and if you carry the banner you’re more likely dead. And if that system was hard enough to live by in itself… well, the jacked-up price of papes was sure to change that for the worse.</p><p>There was nothing he could do about it.</p><p>He stopped. </p><p>The summer breeze was cool and lazy, a complete contrast to the rage boiling inside of him.</p><p>Because he was wrong.</p><p>There <em> was </em> something he could do about it.</p><p>Spot nearly turned around, then. He was just about to go, to find Race in Queens and offer his support, or go find Jack and Davey to tell them he was with them, but he didn’t. Because that would mean going through Brooklyn, or looking into the eyes of a boy who was like he used to be. That would mean walking the streets that once were his own, by himself, for the first time since that night. That would mean remembering. Remembering… </p><p><em>The flames, the heat, nearly searing off his eyebrows, i</em><em>ntense enough to dry up the tears on his face. The bodies, burnt and blackened, but still recognizable. Hot Shot, Myron, Bart, and the </em>kids—<em>the youngest, York, was barely 5 years old</em> <em>and is barely three weeks dead. The movement in the fire, a hand, a face— if it could be called that. Graves, burning alive amongst the carnage</em>.<em> The crash of the beam, the snap it made when it hit his spine, the scream… </em></p><p><em> The </em> screams. <em> Deep, guttural noises, inhuman, almost, Belonging more to animals than children. Because that’s all they were. Children, not men; boys. </em> His <em> boys. His boys, but no longer. Because they’re DEAD. And they’d died alone.  </em></p><p>
  <em> He let his boys die alone. </em>
</p><p>Just like the Poplar Street Lodging House had, Spot collapsed. Broken, unable to stand anymore. But he didn’t cry. No, because men don’t cry. </p><p>(They do.)</p><p>But, regardless, there was another thing Spot was wrong about. <em>He was still a boy.</em> <strike>Just like the ones in the fire.</strike></p><hr/><p>He woke up in his bed. His old bed. From Brooklyn. Spot, confused for a second, looked up. <em> Oh. </em></p><p>Crowded around him were Hot Shot, Myron, Bart, Graves, York, Vince—<em>his boys. </em> Alive <em> . </em></p><p>“It… was a dream?”</p><p>Hot Shot smiled. “Yeah. A dream.”</p><p>But Spot was already screaming. Because boys have teeth in their mouths. Not fire.</p><p>Graves reached out his hand, concerned. “Sometin’ wrong, Boss?”</p><p>His hand. <em> His hand. </em> Spot ran. But too late. There was fire. Burning him up, burning them all up. He writhed in pain, a scream breaking from his throat. A scream he’d heard before.</p><p>A hand touched his shoulder, and he jolted around, up and out of sleep, into Race’s arms.</p><p>“Hey, hey, I’s here, Spot. Ssh, it’s okay, I’s gotcha.”</p><p>To say that Racetrack was the stronger one was a lie. Because that’s all he was doing. Lying. Pretending, more accurately. He was pretending to be strong, just so that Spot could hold on to him. He was pretending to be okay, because he <em> had to be, </em> for Spot’s sake. Race would be lying if he ever denied a little piece of him dying every time Spot woke up crying in his arms. But he did deny it, so he was lying.</p><p>And it wasn’t just that.</p><p>Albert kept asking how he was holding up. Race said he was fine. (He wasn’t. Whenever Racetrack had a moment alone he cried—no, sobbed uncontrollably.) Jack kept offering to give him a bit of extra money to pay for Spot. Race said he had it under control. (He didn’t. Some days he didn’t sell enough papes for the both of them, and instead of asking for help, paid for their sleep, but only Spot’s food.)</p><p>Lies. All of it. The only person he wasn’t lying to was Spot. He meant every word he said to him, because he loved him. (He always had, but Racetrack never told him that. He wasn’t ready.)</p><p>So when the boy he loved woke up for what must be the twentieth nightmare in around twenty-one days (the one day missed being a day he didn’t sleep), shaking, begging for it to stop, asking Racer to help in a voice that was more broken than breaking, Race had to force back his own tears.</p><p>“I can’t help ya, sweetheart. I want to, but I can’t.”</p><p>“No one can,” he whispered, and that was when Race cracked.</p><p>Or he would’ve, if he wasn’t so good at pretending. Because pretending, to Racetrack, was okay. Pretending wasn’t lying; all he was doing was faking a composed front.</p><p>(What Race refused to admit was that pretending—faking—is as good as lying.)</p><p>What Spot didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.</p><p>What <em> Racetrack </em>didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.</p><p>What didn’t Racetrack know?</p><p>Race didn’t know what caused Spot to regret ever closing his eyes. He couldn’t see the dream that had tormented Spot for weeks on end. He didn’t know <em> he </em> was why Spot woke up (the burning hand on Spot’s shoulder was <em> Race’s. </em>) Spot would prefer it to be kept that way.</p><p>(But Racetrack knew. He always knew. He knew his boyfriend better than he knew himself. Well, he didn’t <em> exactly </em> know, but he understood. <strike> <em> Because Race had been a broken boy, too. </em> </strike>)</p><p>(Spot also knew. Again, he didn’t <em> know, </em> not really, but he saw. He saw Racetrack put on a mask every morning—the mask of a smile—but Spot knew Race’s smile, and what he saw wasn’t it. <strike> <em> Because Spot had a mask, as well </em> </strike> <strike>.</strike>)</p><p>But the life of a newsboy is more of a routine: get up, sell, eat, sleep. And then over again. Yeah, sure, maybe there’d be the odd fun and games in between, but at the core structure, that’s all it was. <em> Get up, sell, eat, sleep. </em> So in the monotony of day-to-day exercises, Race got up.</p><p>Before he left, he turned to Spot. “Y’know, Queens said that they’re wit’ us.”</p><p>Spot didn’t reply, sensing a “but”.</p><p>“Well, they’re with us if <em> he </em>is.”</p><p>“He?” Less of a question, more asking for confirmation of what he assumed.</p><p>“Yeah. Queens, an’ most other turfs, too, they’re with us as long as you are. They strike if Spot Conlon does.”</p><p>Spot raised his eyes to Race, and held his gaze. Racetrack sighed, grabbing his cap and cigar off the bed and made to head out the door. He stopped, and collected himself.</p><p>“Are you?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Are ya with us, or are we screwed? Race smiled, and Spot’s stomach fell. He knew the answer Racer expected but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. </p><p>As the silence dragged on Race’s smile slipped. He looked down, his voice small. “Right.”</p><p>“Hey, I didn’t say nothin’!” Spot protested.</p><p>“Yeah, but you’s was thinkin’ it. I could see it in ya face, Spot,” Race retorted.</p><p>“Racer, I—”</p><p>“Are ya striking, Spot?” he snapped, getting right in Spot’s face.</p><p>Again, the lack of an answer was all Race needed. He scowled and spun around, stalking out the door. Spot snatched at his hand, but Race pulled away.</p><p>“Racer—”</p><p>“I don’ care!'' he yelled, spinning around to face him. “I don’ <em> care </em> what’cha have ta say ‘cause it ain’t gonna be no use ta me!”</p><p>“Oh, so am I jus’ a “use” ta ya now?” Spot crossed his arms, a storm brewing behind his eyes.</p><p>Race stuttered. “Wh—what? I—I never said that!”</p><p>“Ya didn’t have ta.”</p><p>“Spot—”</p><p>“No, Racer! I’s <em> done </em> wit’ this. You’s always treadin’ ‘round me like I’s gonna break a’ any moment, an’ you’s actin’ like you ain’t doin’ nothin’ diff’rent when we both knows you’s full of <em> shit </em>.”</p><p>“Oh <em> I’s </em> the one full o’ shit, am I?” Race replied, eyes blazing. “Huh. Says the guy who ain’t helpin’ us strike, jus’ backin’ out wit’ no reason—”</p><p>“Oh you wants a reason? How’s this: <em> nothin’ </em>is gonna change ‘cause you ‘Hattan newsies are gonna bolt at the first sign o’ trouble, and them other boroughs ain’t gon’ be no help.”</p><p>“Ya callin’ me a pussy?”</p><p>“Not <em> you </em>—”</p><p>“Well ya might as well be! I’m a ‘Hattan newsie, Spot,” Racetrack paused. This could’ve been a perfect time to excuse himself to leave, but since Race was Race, he just had to carry on. “An’ it’s a bit hypocritical o’ ya ta call us cowards when <em> you </em>ain’t even daring to strike.”</p><p>Race almost shivered as Spot fixed a cold glare on him, the room dropping several degrees in temperature.</p><p>“Now <em> you’s </em>callin’ me a coward.”</p><p>“So what if I am?” Race lifted his chin, attempting to hide the fear bubbling in his chest. (He failed.)</p><p>“You’s unbelievable,” Spot spat, turning back to his room and slamming the door.</p><p>Racetrack hesitated a moment longer, not quite sure what to do. He steeled himself, and finally left.</p><p>The damage was done.</p><hr/><p>Spot was <em> pissed. </em> At Racetrack, at the ‘Hattan newsies, at Pulitzer and Hearst, at the <em> whole fucking world </em> for just allowing him to even <em> exist. </em></p><p>He took a deep breath, and recollected himself. Start from the top.</p><p>Racetrack. He’d never fought with him before, but now they’d both finally broken, the carefully constructed facade shattering under the onslaught of sharp words built to hurt. And hurt they did. Spot (almost) regretted everything he’d said, but Racer had shot back some shitty words too. If he was any less stubborn, he’d go and find him, apologize, join the strike.</p><p>(But what Spot wouldn’t, couldn’t admit was that Racer was right. Spot <em> was </em> scared—but not for himself.)</p><p>(Take your guess as to whom.)</p><p>The Manhattan newsies. Despite all them having done was help him, he was still bothered by them just being there. Living. (Much unlike <em> his </em> boys.) Besides, they, too, were all careful around him like he was easily broken glass.</p><p>(Fun fact: like glass, he was already shattered.)</p><p>(Another fun fact: these facts aren’t fun.)</p><p>Pulitzer and Hearst. Well, that was easily figured out. The raising of the papers had angered Spot, and not just because the newsies were being forced to strike, but because he knew that Brooklyn would’ve faced the same jack-up, and he knew <em> exactly </em> which boys would’ve been hit the hardest and who would’ve struggled and how he could’ve helped them and—</p><p>The world. The entire fucking world, allowing him to exist—and not just that, but exist when his Brooklyn boys couldn’t. God, Spot missed them all. He had cared about every single one of them; made sure they were safe and fed, because no one deserved to go through what he had. Especially now. Especially since he’d gone on a walk that night, and let them suffer alone. <em> Without him to help. </em> Honestly, Spot didn’t care that he would’ve burned that night too. It would have been fine, but only because he <em> would’ve been there. </em> Of course, he hadn’t, he was still alive, and all because Racer had showed up to walk with him—</p><p><em> Racetrack. </em> It all came back to <em> him, </em> didn’t it. It always had, Spot realized, and it probably always would. Because—because… <em> what? </em> He halted in his pacing, losing his balance due to the sudden stop. The world came crashing down around him, his whole perception of reality deciding to flip him off and fade out.</p><p>
  <em> Because he loved him. </em>
</p><p>Spot loved him.</p><p>Spot loved Racetrack.</p><p>
  <em> Shit. </em>
</p><p>Without a second wasted, he scrambled for the door, bolting through the Lodging House and onto the streets of Manhattan. Spot didn’t spare any regards to the people he pushed over in his rush, because the only thought running through his mind was “Racer”.</p><hr/><p>Spot stumbled over uneven ground as he neared the circulation gate, throwing the doors open and charging into the yard.</p><p>“Racer!”</p><p>The first thing he saw was the Manhattan newsies huddled around something—no, <em> someone </em>— on the ground.</p><p>The first thing he heard was sobs.</p><p>The next thing he saw was tears—not his own, for once. The ‘Hattan boys were crying. (<em>Over what? </em>)</p><p>The next thing he heard was Jack, walking up to him. (<em>“I’m sorry, Spot. I’m so fucking sorry.” </em>)</p><p>The one thing he felt was pain.</p><p>After the fire, Spot didn’t think anything could make him feel as broken and hurt as watching his boys burn up, helpless. He was wrong. He was <em> so fucking wrong </em> . Because the one thing Spot <em> knew </em> could hurt him he didn’t even imagine being possible. But here it was. His deepest, greatest fear, in front of his eyes.</p><p>Because, surrounded by his family of newsies, lying there in the middle of the distribution yard, was Race. Almost paralyzed with grief, Spot forced himself to move towards him, Jack trailing behind—the source of the sobbing Spot had heard before—and he knelt down next to him. Next to Racetrack.</p><p>Racetrack, who was bleeding from the head in mass amounts, the bright red soaking into the ground and pooling all around. Racetrack, with the side of his head smashed in. Racetrack, barely conscious, but still reaching his arm out to him, wanting him still, even after their fight.</p><p>Spot thought the sight of burning bodies would be the worst thing he’d ever see, but this was worse. <em> This was so much worse. </em></p><p>He reached out a shaking hand, brushing against the side of his head, and it came away wet and sticky and a bright crimson. Race’s blood. <em> Race’s blood. </em> In his other hand, he took Racetrack’s, gripping it tightly.</p><p>“Racer…” he whispered, unable to say much else. The anguish and pain from the fire had been akin to a cold wave washing over him. This was more like crashing off a cliff into the ocean, which then picked him up and unrelentingly smashed him against the rocky cliffs off which he fell in wave after wave after wave. He was powerless to stop it. </p><p>He was powerless to stop Racer dying.</p><p>“I’s sorry, Racer. I didn’t mean—”</p><p>“I know, Spot,” Racetrack said, smiling despite it all. “I know.”</p><p>Spot choked back a sob, and pulled him off the ground into his chest. “Don’t leave me, Racer. Please.”</p><p>Race kissed him. </p><p>Spot let his tears fall. He didn’t care that the ‘Hattan boys were watching (they already knew anyway), he didn’t care that this would be their last kiss, he didn’t care that he’d let his boys die alone because <em> goddammit, </em>he wasn’t gonna let another person he loved slip away without him being there, he <em>just didn’t care</em>, because all that mattered was Racetrack, in his arms, kissing him with the last of his strength.</p><p>They broke apart, Racer still smiling and still bleeding but still there.</p><p>“I love you,” he whispered, and Spot closed his eyes. He laughed without humor, his heart breaking. He opened his eyes to meet Race’s so he could say it too, but <em> oh.  </em></p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p>His breathing stuttered as Racetrack’s stopped. His eyes glazed over, the light that used to live behind them finally extinguished. </p><p>Dead.</p><p>Racetrack was dead.</p><p>Racer, <em> his Racer, </em> dead. Gone. Lost forever. And Spot didn’t get to tell him that he loved him.</p><p>This was it. The thing that finally threw him over the edge. Through his whole life he’d been pushed so hard, his limits stretched past their breaking point until he finally snapped in the heat of the fire. But it hadn’t been the end, because he had Racetrack to hold him together.</p><p>Well.</p><p>Not anymore.</p><p>Yeah, this was it for Spot. Race was dead, and without him Spot went flying over the edge. Of his breaking point? No. He literally went flying over the edge.</p><p>Because it was the Brooklyn Lodging House that had burned down, not the Brooklyn Bridge.</p><hr/><p>
  <em> A month later, and the Manhattan newsies were still in shock. Sure, they’d won their rights after striking and rallying and printing their own newspaper, but at what cost? Two lives. Now, that doesn’t seem like much, but there weren’t meant to be any fatalities in the first place. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> They pooled their spare money together, and with Kloppman’s help, bought a plot at the nearest cemetery. (They could only afford one.) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A shared headstone, simply engraved. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Here lies Racetrack Higgins and Spot Conlon. Separated through Death, but joined in Love.” </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*sung* the lodging house is burning down, burning down, burning down. the lodging house is burning down, they all di-e :)</p><p>anyways</p><p>After that happy note I want to acknowledge that the Brooklyn newsboys did indeed strike, in March 1886. The Western District newsboys got the price of the Brooklyn Times lowered, but the Eastern District newsboys did not get the same deal. So they stormed distribution office in protest, and after a few days of striking, both areas of Brooklyn could buy papers to sell at the same price.</p><p>So uh, hope you enjoyed it? Contrary to popular belief, I can write angst. And this is what happens when I do :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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